


Alone Time

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Bingo, Blackout Bingo, Challenges, Cheunh Language (Star Wars), Chiss (Star Wars), F/F, F/M, Fantasizing, Flirting, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Happy Ending, Horny Thrawn, Imperial Officers (Star Wars), In Public, Lust, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Merry Chissmas, Multi, Sexual Fantasy, Short, Showers, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr: Writing-prompt-s, all kinds of appendages going in all kinds of orifices, b-I-n-g-o, cursing, happy holidays, quarantine/lockdown, thryce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: After a particularly frustrating day, the Grand Admiral "refreshes" himself in a most indulgent manner.
Relationships: Arihnda Pryce/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Arihnda Pryce/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto, Karyn Faro/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Arihnda Pryce/Eli Vanto
Comments: 24
Kudos: 35





	Alone Time

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was written for the Merry Chissmas Bingo Challenge on tumblr that [contentment-of-cats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary) proposed! Being the ambitious psycho I am, I bingo'd the entire card with one fic ("blackout bingo"). I have **bolded** the parts that address the 24 specific prompts from the card below, so you can check off the squares as you read along if you like that sort of thing!

Thrawn let out a **curse** in Cheunh as **the portal to his personal quarters slid shut**. It wasn’t quite as gratifying as he’d hoped. Sometimes he longed for the days of old-fashioned, hinged doors that could be slammed in violent—if admittedly puerile—satisfaction. Since the _Chimaera’s_ technology didn’t allow for that, he had to be content with another string of vulgarisms that he hadn’t voiced in years.

He got frustrated, sometimes even angry, but rarely…rarely did he lose control. And that was precisely the knife edge upon which the Grand Admiral was balanced at this moment. Even though his medical chief had submitted an urgent request to discuss the latest **lockdown** protocols, Thrawn didn’t trust himself enough to focus on another meeting, much less one of such importance. Not right now. He’d sent Faro as his proxy.

Thrawn needed to be alone—what the ship's medbay psych droids would have called **‘downtime**.’ Moreover, he needed to stop thinking about… Well, about everything. But especially about _her_ : Lothal’s ambitious young governor Arihnda Pryce. That maddeningly irritating, periodically infuriating, always getting under his skin, indispensable bureaucrat. She was smart. She was savvy. But for someone like Thrawn, who liked to measure and anticipate every variable of his strategies, she was unpredictable in the worst ways.

And today…Today she’d been _flirting_.

Running a trembling hand through his hair, Thrawn stalked to the refresher. Automated lights flashed on a low setting and he quickly commanded them off. Darkness suited his mood.

The Empire had announced the quarantine restrictions only 28 hours earlier, but things were moving fast. Thrawn hadn’t slept more than a few precious moments since—spending a **restless night** interrupted by comms, alarms, meetings, and his own ideas, trying to plot the best way forward in the coming days. Of course, **the Imperial Navy hadn’t thought through** the implications of their newly enacted regulations: ships were stuck in distant dry docks without adequate provisions, supply routes had quickly become pirate-friendly free-for-alls in the absence of fleet policing, and Rebels would now operate unchecked until the virus was eradicated or vaccinated.

Capital ships were granted one **travel day** —and only one—to onboard supplies and get to where they would spend the next two to fourteen weeks. Luckily the _Chimaera_ was well-situated in Lothal’s planetary orbit, so their position was better than most, if not exactly **comforting**.

Heated blood throbbed behind his temples as Thrawn stared at the reflection in the unlit mirror, fingers working the clasps of his stiff tunic. The glow of his crimson eyes was murky with exhaustion—the toll of insomnia shaded beneath their sockets. To make things even more aggravating, the comm with the Governor had definitely not gone well. Thrawn yanked off his brilliant white shirt as if it were to blame, tossing the starched material, rank plaque and all, into the corner. He needed to escape himself—his thoughts. The sonic would help.

First Pryce had stated she had to stockpile all fresh food for “her” citizens, only agreeing to send a mess of synthed edible components to supplement his Star Destroyer’s stores. It was the equivalent of **junk food** —the barest acceptable nutritional value—but when Thrawn pointed this out, she only repeated his words back to him. “Acceptable nutritional value.” So he’d lost that argument. His crew—and the rest of the Seventh Fleet—would be eating fake bantha burgers and ersatz ribenes for the foreseeable future.

Kicking off his boots with a grunt, Thrawn tugged tight pants over his socks and sent the lot sailing into the growing pile against the wall. His underclothes followed, until he stood naked and seething in the shadows. 

Thumbing the **shower** controls to the coldest setting, he stepped in the stall, shivering twice before forcing himself to relax under the chemical spray. A chilly respite was exactly what was needed to cool the blood in his veins…

The stream stuttered and warmed without him touching anything. Thrawn spat another curse. **Not again…** the refresher’s temperature control had been sporadic in the past week, but he hadn’t prioritized the repair with the shipboard maintenance crew. They had enough to worry about—fixing recent torpedo damage and starting the cold storage hold reinforcements.

Memories of the afternoon's virtual meeting with Pryce surged into his mind, soaking his thoughts as the sonic did the same to his body. She hadn’t been wearing her standard regulation uniform on the holovid; the emergency summons from Coruscant had clearly taken her unawares. The woman had an amazing figure, Thrawn could readily admit—one that her usual Imperial greys didn’t flatter to its fullest potential. He’d had to c **oncentrate not to stare at the cleavage** that was prominent—impressive despite the uneven shimmer of the holo display. And why had she been _dressed_ like that? Had she been interrupted on a date? What else could justify such an outfit in the middle of a workday? 

It had been embarrassing, how different she’d looked, how … how _sexy_. It was the only word Thrawn could come up with, and it fit. Fit as tightly as the bodice of that dress. At one point, he’d been so rapt—as she leaned across to grab something out of view—that he’d missed a question.

Pryce had called him out on it, rather than diplomatically ignoring his inattention. **Busted him** in front of everyone. Wincing in delayed chagrin, Thrawn turned around so his back could take the brunt of the hammering rain against his skin. He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing the steam deeply into his lungs. It wasn't enough to drown out his memory of the amusement that had coated her tone. 

“Grand Admiral…is something distracting you? Is this not a good time?”

His hasty excuse—a technical delay in the signal—was a good one, given the holonet congestion since the Empire’s announcement, but the small tilt of Pryce’s mouth had suggested at least the most relevant among his audience was not convinced. Shifting his weight in the stall, Thrawn lifted his head, feeling the liquid stream through his short hair, rivers of poorly-calibrated temperature mapping his scalp.

“Let me know,” she’d smiled broadly in the blue-tinted image, one hand trailing a far-too-deliberate path between her breasts back down to her tightly-cinched waist, “if there’s anything I can do to help.”

The water got hotter by several degrees, and Thrawn leaned against the wall, submitting to the heat rather than fighting it. Still annoyed, but more calm, he pushed the button for lather. The sonic’s spray speckled his blue skin with dots of cleansers, doing its preprogrammed work without requiring any participation from its occupant. With a sigh, Thrawn looked down between his legs. His cock certainly wasn’t complaining about the temperature, nor the trajectory of his thoughts. Water spilled over his neck, ears, and broad shoulders, soapy waterfalls cascading off his joints. Rivulets ran down the lines of his hips, directing his attention to where it was wanted.

 **Why in the galaxy would the Governor do that?** On a comm?! In front of his deputies, and hers? And the truly bizarre part was, he’d _liked_ it. _Liked_ her knowing he had been staring at the curves of her body, thinking about what lay hidden beneath the slip of material wrapped around her chest. **_Liked_ ** **the fact that other people were there, watching, maybe wondering if anything was going on between them.** He certainly hadn't expected it of her, but never in a thousand millennia expected it of himself—to enjoy the attention, the dangerous hint of seduction, poorly timed and absolutely misplaced. In fact, if they’d been in the room together, and she’d done the same thing, he’d have—

Thrawn fisted his cock in surrender. He was already aching, hard and ready. **It was a relief to succumb,** his hand applying the perfect pressure, his fingers gliding in an all-too-practiced motion as the Grand Admiral closed his eyes. Resting his forehead under the pounding spray, he let his imagination run as wild and unchecked as it wished. Pryce—splayed naked and flushed on the bed, hips bucking as his tongue tasted and tormented her. He was sure her flavor would be **as addictive as spice, as sweet as namana**. Next, riding him, rounded breasts heavy in his hands, nipples peaked against his lips, body tight and slick as she gasped and screamed and moaned his name.

He desperately wanted to hear her say his name. Not Thrawn. Not Grand Admiral. His real name. **His full name.** Listen to the syllables fall from her lips like snowflakes softening a glacier’s edge, or more likely, sleet tumbling to carve ice into splinters. Hear her cry out as he brought her begging to climax over and over, relentlessly pursuing her pleasure and refusing to grant quarter until she broke apart and collapsed in his arms.

Thrawn’s hand moved faster, sliding the considerable length of his cock. It was all too easy to imagine those teasing, thin fingers gripping him, stroking him expertly, or his own hands on her slippery pale skin, wet flesh gliding together, his lips soft against the smoothness of her back, or his tongue tracing the points of her shoulderblades. A groan left his lips as the sonic turned even warmer—or maybe it just felt like it. Steam clouded the narrow space, misting his vision. 

Pryce wanted him… he was sure of it. 

So why didn’t he do anything about it? He remembered the glittering challenge in her beautiful eyes when she’d asked him why Vanto or Faro was always on the bridge with him… Jealousy. And interest. Early on, Pryce had grilled him regarding Vanto’s background, the younger man’s origins, the history of their relationship… and later inquired how long Faro had “been with” him—something petty in the phrasing—and what the other woman's “specialties” were…

Yes. Jealousy.   
  
And interest.

Breathing was coming harder now, Thrawn's lust-drenched mind concocting ever more elaborate scenarios. Vanto, taking Pryce from behind as she rode his blue cock on a conference table. The two of them filling her as he pressed a thumb between her full lips, watching her pink tongue lick his finger as they stretched her limits. Vanto, cupping her breasts as he entered her, while his superior officer sucked them from the front. Thrawn wanted to make that fierce woman twitch atop him, shudder, completely taken, completely his… 

His thighs tensed as Thrawn supported himself with one hand, lifting his face into the fluid torrent beating down in a matching rhythm. This… she… felt so good. Would feel so good. He knew it.

He could almost feel it now: Pryce’s wet mouth wrapped in an ‘o’ around his cock as he slammed it down her throat, knowing she’d hold his stare, wanton and willing and worshiped by them both as Vanto shoved deep into her ass. Yes, Vanto would want her. Thrawn had no doubt.

The sonic’s spray battered him as his fist clenched, thumb rolling over the head of his cock as Thrawn tried to slow. Delay was a reflex—there was no point in denying, holding back. Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, drops of water flew from Thrawn’s hair, spattering the stall as his hand returned to its task. The crescendo of his orgasm had been interrupted, but still hovered, eager and insistent as his fingers again wrapped his erection in a delicious vise, thoughts quick to pick up the dropped thread.

Commander Faro could join them… The unlikeliness—the sheer insanity—of the situation made it no less enticing. Pryce had been more than a little curious about his relationship with his XO. Adding another participant to the bacchanal would be an artistic challenge: how **to display each to their finest advantage, determine who was best penetrated by whose fingers and tongues, whose cock best-suited to satisfy which hole...** The optimum placement of lips and hands and limbs and orifices… The configurations fluttered behind his eyes; Thrawn couldn't select a favorite, although one he dwelt upon longer than most: the Governor, straddling Faro's face, the other woman's head buried between Pryce's legs as Vanto roughly fucked his fellow shipmate, teeth at her breasts, while their commanding officer measured Pryce's endurance and depths with his own cock, one hand joining Faro's talented tongue at her cunt, the other fisting in that short black hair, bending her long neck back to stifle those breathy cries with kisses. Yes... this was a maneuver he would plan with meticulous precision, execute with the mastery it merited…

The images his brain eagerly presented were too much, and Thrawn came with a hiss, muscles seizing and ass clenching as wave after wave of come cascaded unceremoniously down the drain. Soapy bubbles followed, trickling off his nose, elbows, and collarbones. 

It had been too long. And what was he waiting for, really? Pryce had been tempting him for years, and he’d resisted, convincing himself that maintaining professional distance was the necessary and proper course. His body loosened, the tension released, and Thrawn stood straighter, rinsing the last of the suds from his skin.

A fruitless train of thought—it was too late. They were on lockdown. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—attempt seduction over a comm, and what would be the rationale? He wanted the Governor of Lothal in his arms, his bed, not on the other end of a holo. And dirty talk had never come easy to him—she’d probably laugh or call him whatever the Lothalian equivalent of **_moactan teel_ ** was. He could hear Pryce’s low, sultry voice in his head turned mocking as he tried to court her from a distance… “ **Wait, what now?** What are you going to do to me?” It would be a disaster.

**_WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP_ **

The thudding coming from outside was extremely different than the typical visitor annunciator chime. Thrawn’s eyes snapped to the door, already half out of the refresher. Grabbing a towel and his blaster—it was never far from his fingers—he sprinted into the main salon. Tucking the towel one-handed around his waist, Thrawn moved to the side of the entryway.

_WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP_

The pounding continued. His stormtrooper bodyguard detail was either dead or about to be, once he found them.

Punching the security cam control, more confused than alarmed, Thrawn saw the compact, raging figure of Governor Pryce through the small screen. She no longer wore that incredible dress, he thought stupidly; somehow the wrongness of her presence on his ship registered less than her wardrobe change. Off to one side, Commander Vanto was flustered and animated, gesturing wildly, indicating something behind him as they appeared to argue.

Pressing the portal release to admit his determined visitor, Thrawn stood calmly, dripping, to the side of the door. There was silence in the corridor as she stepped over the threshold, unsuccessfully restraining a double-take at his half-naked appearance.

“Governor Pryce. **What, may I ask, did you do?”**

She pushed past him with a snort, waving one hand towards the hallway. “Your crew is complaining because the lockdown starts in less than two hours.”

The door snicked shut, and Thrawn pressed the lockseal. When he turned to meet Pryce’s gaze, he was pleased to see her eyes were most definitely not on his face.

“Therefore, if you remain here much longer, you will be restricted to the _Chimaera_ for the indeterminate duration of the mandated quarantine.”

“Yes,” she answered evenly, taking a step towards him. “But **I did think this through,** you know.”

“Did you?” Thrawn raised an eyebrow as one of her hands reached out, index finger extended to graze the notch between his collarbones, trailing down the center of his damp sternum. He stood like a statue as the rounded, polished nail drifted down to the towel draped haphazardly around his waist.

“The junk food _is_ going to be awful…”

The rations were mostly her fault after all, since she had restricted their access to fresh provisions. Thrawn, however, merely nodded at her words; he didn’t trust himself to speak. If he said the wrong thing, the Grand Admiral had little doubt the Governor would explode in a most undesirable way. She was volatile, he reminded himself, heartbeat accelerating in anticipation. Silence seemed the best option. The strategic choice.

The wandering hand reached the tuck of his towel and paused. Thrawn met Pryce’s eyes, smoldering with blue flames that he wanted very much to stoke. And perhaps now, it seemed, he would have his chance.

“…so you better make this worth it,” she finished. Her fingernail hooked inside, tugged gently, and Thrawn’s towel fell soundlessly to the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like a longer exploration of Thryce in a quarantine scenario, allow me to humbly recommend my fic [Infectious.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320856) Thank you for reading and happy holidays :)


End file.
